


Salamander

by Unovis



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Books, Exhibitionism, M/M, Masturbation, Merry Month of Masturbation Challenge 2010, Priests, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-23 23:43:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/932488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unovis/pseuds/Unovis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Methos in the sun, Darius in the shade. A little bit of smut for the Merry Month of May.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Salamander

At the mouth to the village, its lowest point, where the path forked downhill, before it wound around eventually to meet a road... at that low, flat place sat the church. The whole village descended to worship and rose, restored and thoughtful, to return home.

Behind the church was the common graveyard and the garden and house of the priest. Uphill from the church was the village square. Along the river that tumbled from the heights, to the west, was the Mill and above that the alewife's brewery and further above that, the smith's furnace and forge. Dotted here and there, near the best bits of pasture or ground for vines or trees were small houses and larger houses and farms. At the highest habitable point was a ruin, a tumble of stone and weathered beams. It had been a manor, an age ago.

The ruins were a ready source of dressed stone. The iron fixtures had long disappeared to scavengers. Silvery thick beams lay across steps and floors covered with vines a nd leaf-mould and animal debris. Fire had destroyed it. Fire fed by casks of oil and wine; fire that called down answering fire from the heavens, stories had it, lightning that shivered the building's walls. Burned the rooves. Blasted the doors. No one left its heart alive, except, of course, Father Darius.

The old Lord was a bad lord, stories also said. But he was gone.

Today, now, this sweet and ripening June, the great golden eye of God shone down on the former chapel, on a cleared patch of faded rose and white inlay. Crumbling walls cast shadows in the corners. Above, in place of the vanished roof, was the azure canopy of the sky. Against the wall, reading a missal, sat the priest in his robe and sandals. On the floor, on his back in a pool of light, lay a naked fool.

"Thief."

"Three empty pages, Father, from the book's back. One of them torn."

"Thief. That book is sacred."

"A sacred book of records. As is mine." With his eyes kept closed against the honest sun, the thief sighed and stretched his legs. "Bless the sinner. Bless the day."

The missal was plain and well-thumbed. Its decorations were few, rendered in thready red and blue lines. The margin of today's office showed a salamander in a flame. It was an uncommon fancy; perhaps the scribe had been bored. Darius treasured the rare grace of it. He squinted at the sinner. "Records of vice."

Matthieu had climbed to the ruins with a small pouch of food tied to his waist and a leather bottle swinging from his staff. Darius had not planned to stop so long. He wanted to see if his bees had found the flowering sage. (He wanted to show this place to Matthieu in clement weather.) But Matthieu had brought bread and olives in oil and a lump of new cheese wrapped in grape leaves. The bottle was full of cider. The chapel floor was warm. Matthieu's clogs were heavy and must come off. Matthieu's shirt itched and must come off. Matthieu's trousers--no reason was offered; Darius turned a page and looked up to see Matthieu naked, saluting the sun. Now he lay on the warm, worn stone, pillowed on his bundled clothes.

Darius glanced again at the wanton display over the edge of his book. The sun made the pale body glow. Matthieu never listed hunger in his litany of complaints against his humble new surroundings, but he ate like a wolf. His ribs no longer showed. The skin over his breast was taut. If Darius were to draw his thumb across the fair, fine surface, it would press into softness. His lips were pink and moist with oil. His sex lolled dusky against his thigh. Darius blinked. The devil.

The devil smiled. "Shall I record you? My mud-beloved, my cricket in the shadows."

"Cover yourself."

"Why?" Matthieu squinted sidelong at him. "Are we observed? Do I scandalize the lizards, do I tempt the bees?" He rolled his head to the side, smiling, showing teeth. "Do I entice the saint?"

"You would corrupt a stone." There was no need to mark his place; the missal was committed to memory. The devil, of longer acquaintance, was not. "You've nothing I haven't seen," he said.

"I've grown an extra leg. Come count them."

"You're a fool."

"And a tail."

"I don't doubt."

"Be a Thomas! Put your fingers in."

"In you? I'd never get them back."

"Or want them out. Now, see, you've tempted me. Come into the sun, seducer. Feel the heat."

"This was a holy place," Darius replied, mildly. Milder than his memories.

"Safer and safer. Have you never conjoined on Holy Ground, Father?"

He had; they had, and often, if the crypt was holy ground, or in fact, the house he built above it with their bed, their table, their floor, their hearth. But safety was relative. "Was, I said. And not here."

"What happened here?"

Darius closed his eyes. It was less obvious than looking away. The sun, even from his shaded spot, turned his vision red. Like fire. "Men died."

"Men do. Will you come or will I drag you here?"

"And leave your back?" asked Darius. He inhaled slowly, willing the scent of sage blossom to clear his mind.

"Join my back. Come, Darius."

"No." He exhaled. The sage, the mingled scents of stone and moss and incense that clung to his book--or memory--were more pepper than balm. He could not resist; he peeked at the devil. Matthieu popped the last of the olives into his mouth. He ran his fingers inside the small clay pot, chasing a caper. He licked it from his fingertip and wiped his hand on his belly, streaking flesh and hairs with oil. Darius pressed his tongue against his cheek: green oil and olives he could still taste.

Matthieu grinned."Give me your mouth, Father; I love your mouth."

"No." The devil's hand descended, trailing oil.

"Your hand." The devil sighed. "I love your hand on me." His fingers stroked lower, darkening brown curls

"No." He should move on to the next page. The salamander in the margin winked at him.

"Your eyes." Matthieu squeezed his fat and happy shaft. His hand was large, his fingers were long and strong and nimble. "Read me like your missal. I'll prompt you to respond." He squeezed himself again, between two fingers, and pulled, stretching his cock. Soft skin (soft, it would be, against Darius's lips) gathered below its hooded head. He rubbed his thumb across it. His cock swelled in his grip.

"My eyes to aid your lewdness." Beside his annoyance, amusement was rising. And the usual something else. The salamander leaned from the margin to lick his thumb.

"There is no lewdness between man and wife." The oiled hand squeezed and stroked, up and down.

"I am not...we are not man and wife."

"I know how it feels to be married, wife; don't you?" He turned on his side, stilling his busy hand. "Have you never married?"

"No."

"Not over the ages?"

"Not in my life."

The devil rolled back onto his spine, thoughtfully. "Then, Father, I am your first. Trust me. It feels like this." He resumed his self-fondling. His cock was stiff, full long. At the top of his stroke he rolled its bulbous, rosy head between his thumb and fingers, making it wink at Darius, hooded and unhooded. Darius could lick it, could feel it sucked into his mouth, round on his tongue, from here. Darius did not touch himself. Rolling, rolling, rolling tempted his fingers, tongue, and cock. The salamander writhed and coiled, laughing at him.

He was aroused, himself, he was rising hard under the rough wool of his robe. He _would not_ squirm. "I pity your wives," he spat.

Matthieu frowned. He looked away. "You would. Be a bachelor then. Please yourself." His hand clenched; Darius could see his knuckles whiten; it must hurt. Matthieu turned onto his side, away from Darius, showing his pinkened and plump and dusty rump. His shoulder jerked, his arm, his elbow propped on his hip, showed the pace his hand resumed. It was rough and fast. Angry or urgent. The long back arched. The long legs drew taut. His buttocks clenched; Darius clenched in sympathy, as his lonely prick bobbed and throbbed.

The salamander hissed.

"Oh, give over," Darius called, and slammed the missal shut. He stood and shook his rasping robe across his cock. "Hold and wait for me."

"Too...ahhhh, aaaaahhhh!" cried Matthieu. His toes curled, his bowed body shuddered. A wet arc spattered across dead leaves. "Ahhhhhh."

Chagrin coiled through desire; and disappointment. Darius snorted. "A waste." He walked over and prodded Matthieu's naked buttocks with his toes.

"Ahhhh...hahahaha." Matthieu sprawled back, onto his foot. His swollen cock flopped wet across his thigh. His face was dreamy, his mouth slack. "Waste not, want not. I would have shared." Darius's prick twitched at the sight. Matthieu's eyes narrowed. Before Darius could flinch away, Matthieu grasped the hem of his robe with his damp hand and held it wide, peering beneath. "What's this? A tree of knowledge!"

"Forbidden fruit," said Darius. His mouth quirked.

"I spy the serpent!"

"Limb of Satan." He snorted. He snickered. He was lost.

Matthieu slapped his calf. "Kneel. I'll be Eve, I'll be Adam."

He could not help himself. He lowered to one knee and admitted the devil with oily hands. Matthieu squeezed and Darius's sandal squeaked against the stone. "Cricket," laughed the fool.

"Salamander," laughed the priest. 

***

**Author's Note:**

> Re-post. This was posted on May 11, 2010. Thanks are due to Carenejeans for reading and advice. I changed the opening paragraph at the end of May.


End file.
